


Bolt Holes

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Past Drug Addiction, Pining Sherlock, Queerplatonic Relationships, minor mentions of infant death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John asked, one evening, if Sherlock liked her.  To which he grudgingly had to say yes, and John said he was glad.<br/>Because John was going to propose to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

It had been a bright and cheerful June afternoon when John appeared in 221B Baker Street with several suitcases. It shouldn’t have made Sherlock pleased, the clear signs that divorce was imminent: the wrinkles in John’s shirt and the spot of shaving cream he’d missed near his left ear and the little red mark on his cheek that spoke of getting slapped by a hand wearing a ring. The baby, which had been the only thing holding John and Mary together there at the end, had died during childbirth. John tried, and Mary tried, and Sherlock even tried a little, but the papers were signed in early October and John was officially reinstated in the upstairs bedroom. Everything was as close to good and proper and right as it could get for exactly eight months, two weeks, and five days.

And then John started dating again. They were innocuous, at first, simple one-night stands to fulfill sexual urges, and, while they were undesirable, Sherlock could tolerate them. They got worse, though, as time went on. Meals with women interrupting cases, John smelling of ghastly floral perfume, one particularly memorable weekend trip to Paris that had Sherlock in a strop for the next three weeks. The horror only continued: John began bringing them around the flat, introducing them to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, expecting Sherlock to make pleasant conversation over morning coffee.

Which led them to Charlotte.

She was not, to her credit, a completely revolting woman. Sherlock was certain, when seen in the correct lighting, she could be perceived as physically attractive. She was marginally intelligent, her laugh didn’t grate on his nerves, and she never called him a freak like the last two had. Her uncle was an apiologist, and she’d once kindly entertained all of Sherlock’s questions about bees and beekeeping for a solid two hours while John looked at the pair of them fondly.

John asked, one evening, if Sherlock liked her. To which he grudgingly had to say yes (because he did, despite all of the deep-seated rage and disgust he felt toward her position in John’s life, genuinely like her as a person). Which made John smile in that way that always warmed Sherlock up from the inside, and John said he was glad.

Because John was going to propose to her.

The warm feeling had gone away.

He showed Sherlock the ring and everything, so startlingly different from the one he had placed on Mary’s finger. One solitary diamond surrounded by tiny deep blue sapphires on a silver band. Elegant, sophisticated – Sherlock hated it.

John ran through his speech, too, practiced it on Sherlock, made the detective swear up and down that he wouldn’t interrupt this proposal.

Because this is important, he’d said. I botched up the proposal to Mary even before you reappeared, and I want this to be perfect.

So Sherlock had smiled at him, and made appropriate comments, and suggested minor changes. And John had smiled back, and thanked him, and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in that way that always said I care about you but I’m a heterosexual man and it’s important that everyone understand that. And then John had asked Sherlock to wish him luck, and he did, and John walked out the door in the nicest suit he owned with the horrible ring in his jacket pocket and Sherlock knew if he stayed in the flat alone for a second longer he’d do something that he would deeply regret.

So he ran.

Redbeard had given him the idea, initially. Mycroft had yelled at the dog, got properly angry at him, for getting into his books and chewing up a priceless first edition, something ridiculous about asteroids. Sherlock had told Mycroft it was a stupid book anyways, but then panicked when, half an hour later, Redbeard had seemingly vanished. Mycroft hadn’t even been properly sorry, either, and Sherlock had spent the better part of an evening searching for him alone in a storm with snot running unpleasantly all over his face before finally discovering the dog tucked away, curled up in a small den hidden in the side of a steep hill. Sherlock had stayed with him that night out of spite and solidarity against Mycroft, almost got pneumonia for it, but he figured Redbeard was on the right track.

He’d created his first bolt hole at Camden Lock when he was sixteen years old. The warehouses had been empty even then, and it had been a simple matter to create a false wall in one of the more decrepit-looking buildings. The space was small – it had been his first go of creating a secret hiding place, and he hadn’t been concentrating on functionality. It had been useful enough as a young schoolboy who occasionally needed to get away from an overbearing big brother just starting out as a wannabe government lackey, and later when he was hiding a drug addiction from an overly concerned Detective Sergeant, but nearly everyone knew of it now. It had served its purpose, and he’d retired it.

Eventually the novelty wore off, and Sherlock wondered why he should stop at just one. So he’d furnished a second, this one a tribute to Redbeard, hidden inside Parliament Hill. A deal made with one of his oh-so-grateful clients that happened to be in landscaping had earned him some very realistic fake shrubbery over the entrance to a well crafted cave reinforced with cedar planks. It had been a delicate operation, constructed over the course of several evenings, but the end result was convincing enough that even Sherlock had some difficulties locating it in the dark. And if it got slightly damp and muddy in the rain, well, that was just part of its charm. But all good things came to an end – Mycroft learned of its existence soon enough and informed Lestrade within weeks.

Lestrade had found Dagmar Court before Mycroft, and been inordinately pleased with himself for it. It wasn’t a fair fight – had Sherlock not been out of his head on cocaine he certainly would have noticed the less-than-subtle recently-promoted Detective Inspector skulking along behind him. Dagmar Court was much posher than the previous two, purchased with Trust Fund money under a false name and outfitted with simple furniture and all the comforts of home. Lestrade had been surprisingly kind about the whole thing – just shoved him into the shower and then banged about making tea while Sherlock came down from the hit. But of course he was going to tell Mycroft, because Sherlock had to get clean if he wanted to keep working cases for New Scotland Yard. Supposedly, Mycroft was going to help him accomplish this. Sherlock had been doubtful.

Kew Gardens had begun innocently enough. He was a chemist, after all, and Mycroft had given him the surprisingly thoughtful birthday gift of an all-access pass around the place to test the plants for all kinds of interesting properties. It had kept him occupied for nearly four months, comparing strains of European and Asian grasses and how quickly different types of bamboo grew and if different soils had effects on the composition of plant fibers (they did). He’d found the blind greenhouse mostly on accident – technically speaking, it wasn’t a greenhouse at all, just an old storage shed off to the side that had apparently been forgotten at some point. Mycroft had agreed to keep that particular bolt hole between the two of them once he saw Sherlock making a concerted effort, albeit a pitifully unsuccessful one, to remain clean.

He wondered what John would say if he knew Sherlock actually owned two empty graves. The little haven in Hampstead Cemetery was a last resort – he’d been doing well, but it was only a matter of time. He didn’t know why the antiquated mausoleum (or “leaning tomb,” as Mycroft had inanely named it) had been left empty for what looked like at least a century, but it was to his advantage. The cemetery was completely full – no one would think to look for him there, and he could have the peace he needed. To this day, he suspected Mycroft didn’t believe it was accidental, that overdose, but had agreed to keep it from Lestrade and their parents if Sherlock quit cold turkey and detoxed in his ostentatious manor house. It had taken three months, two discrete nurses hired to care for him and make sure he didn’t slip up again. He’d returned to the cemetery later to find Mycroft had disposed of his stash, and couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or resentful.

He was almost embarrassed to consider Molly’s bedroom a bolt hole, but the fact remained that it was a necessary evil. He’d spent the initial three days after his supposed death convalescing on her bed – a slight miscalculation with the fall and he’d ended up with a sprained ankle. He’d offered to take the couch but Molly had been insistent; there were people coming and going during those first few days, and it was much easier to simply close the bedroom door than herd him away when people arrived. John had spent the third evening there, getting drunk and weepy with Molly in the sitting room while Sherlock sat with his ear against the door, hoped to God that John would be sober enough not to spend the night. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand hearing John cry and say stupid meaningless untrue platitudes about him before he did something foolish. Sherlock took Mycroft up on his offer of a safe house early the next morning.

Leinster Gardens was the most recent addition. He’d lied to Mary about the Cannibal – she couldn’t always tell when he was fibbing. In truth, he’d simply picked up the property when he noticed it lying vacant upon his return to London. A few fudged bits of paperwork and he’d been the proud new owner of 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens. Cannibals made for a much better story, though. Once, soon after his return, he’d noticed someone following him. Too clumsy and obvious to be one of Mycroft’s agents. He’d suspected Lestrade at first, gallantly attempting to prevent Sherlock from shooting more cocaine into his arms, but a quick inspection by his Homeless Network proved it was Anderson. Interesting, but not entirely unexpected. The man had been treating him like something of a celebrity since his resurrection. And now, of course, the drama of revealing Mary for who she was and had been had stripped Leinster Gardens of its usefulness.

There was one left, though – so ludicrous and unexpected he was certain no one knew about it. Hidden in plain sight and guaranteed to give him the privacy he needed now.

He remembered the first few months of John and Mary’s marriage all too well. The three of them trying to restructure their relationships around the change – Sherlock bringing John out on dangerous cases that made Mary purse her lips but ultimately say nothing, John bringing Sherlock round to stiflingly domestic sit-down meals that made Sherlock desperately crave a cigarette. But there were limits, and less than three months after the wedding their communications were few and far between. Sherlock had turned to heroin and John had pretended his life was fine as it was and look where that had got them. He was reasonably certain that at least Charlotte wasn’t a CIA-trained rogue assassin, but that didn’t make it any less painful this time around. He needed to be left alone with his thoughts for a good long while if he was going to survive this a second time.


	2. Part 2

It was always embarrassingly easy to get inside Big Ben. Sherlock was surprised that more people didn’t do it - certainly it would make for an interesting tourist attraction, if nothing else. Although at the moment he was rather pleased that the general public was so horribly dull - it would rather detract from the purpose of a bolt hole to have people coming in and out while he sat on the dusty floor and smoked his way through the cigarettes he’d lifted off his brother last time Mycroft had come round 221b to annoy them.

He’d been there for almost four hours, letting the regular mechanisms of the clock calm his racing mind, when he was suddenly interrupted. Damnit, he’d been careful, but Mycroft’s men were getting smarter about following him. Of course his brother had been concerned about relapses and danger nights and couldn’t keep his nose out of anyone else’s business. Sherlock turned away from the door, intent on ignoring whoever it was for as long as possible.

It was rather a shock when John simply sat down next to him. Sherlock was expecting some kind of reprimand, anger or confusion, or _something_ , but John stayed silent, eyes wandering around the machinery.

“I doubt they’d appreciate you smoking in here.”

Twenty minutes and 42 seconds – that’s how long it took John to speak. Sherlock had been counting. Something seemed off, though. Dare he hope that Charlotte had turned down the proposal? Or, better yet, that John had got cold feet and decided to drop the idea all together?

“Would you rather the alternative?” Sherlock asked, blowing perfect smoke rings toward one of the gears.

“No,” John said with a chuckle, “I suppose you chain-smoking Mycroft’s cigarettes inside Big Ben isn’t as bad as it could be.”

“My brother sent you.”

“Mycroft told me there was a problem,” he corrected, “but I came on my own. Somehow it felt like a betrayal to let your brother know about this last hidey-hole of yours.” Sherlock scoffed at the language, but he did appreciate it.

“How did you get in?”

“Picked the lock,” John grinned. “Aren’t you proud of me? I do pay attention to you sometimes, you know.” Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but he _was_ proud. Which was foolish and stupid because why did it matter that John had listened to him once and managed to apply the lesson to the door to the inner workings of Big Ben?

“I assure you I’m not doing drugs. Go back to your proposal – I thought you wanted it to be perfect?”

“Yeah, I did. Listen, can we go somewhere else? It’s kind of hard to hold a conversation with the constant ticking and those damn chimes.”

“No,” Sherlock said petulantly, drawing his knees up to his chest. Truth be told, that had been the original reason for this particular bolt hole. Mycroft had become insufferable after that first encounter with Moriarty, and Sherlock had chosen the most annoying location he could think of in retaliation. There was no way his brother could attempt a reprimand in a room with giant gears shifting every second. It was all down to good luck that it appeared Mycroft had never found out about it anyways. Although that was likely to change now.

“Alright,” John sighed. “But I’m blaming you if the sound of Big Ben drives me insane. Seriously, you couldn’t have found a more pleasant spot to hide away from the world?”

“I had several more pleasant spots,” Sherlock said testily. “People kept finding them.”

“Sounds like it’s your fault for not hiding them better, then.” Sherlock huffed and turned farther away, but John just smiled a little and leaned against the wall. They fell silent for nearly seventeen minutes until John plucked the new cigarette Sherlock had just lit out of his fingers. Sherlock was about to protest – they were all John’s fault, anyways – before he realised that John was trying to smoke the thing himself.

“These are horrible.”

“Mycroft only had low-tar,” Sherlock explained, lighting a second one for himself. He couldn’t read anything from John – not in his suit or his face or the ridiculous way he was trying not to cough on the smoke. And it hurt, everything hurt, but he had to know. “Did Charlotte reject your proposal?” John laughed, nearly choking in the process.

“Never one for tact, were you? But no, she didn’t.”

Oh.

Before this moment, Sherlock had not understood the phrase ‘my heart dropped into my stomach.’ It was a stupid idea, completely anatomically impossible and overly sentimental. But it suddenly made sense.

“Didn’t get that far, actually,” John continued. Of course. The proposal was to be delivered over dessert, but Mycroft had interrupted them with the threat of a danger night. Surprising, though, that John had gone along with it.

“Are you going to try again?” Stupid question.

“Yeah, of course. Just because I messed up once doesn’t mean I can’t do it right the second time.” At this, John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out that horrible box covered in awful blue velvet, and Sherlock was concerned he was going to vomit.

“Put that away please. I can’t – I can’t.” He was showing too much, giving too much away. Not that it particularly mattered. John wasn’t as moronic as most of the general population – he could put together what had caused Sherlock’s reaction this time, and now came the awkward, awful conversation where he tried to let Sherlock down easy, said _oh Sherlock you know I care about you but I’m not gay_ and _maybe it would be better if I moved into Charlotte’s place_ and _Sherlock this needs to stop_. And Sherlock had been anticipating having many more hours alone to compose himself before this conversation.

He wasn’t ready.

“Just take it, will you?” Sherlock did with a grumble, picking it up gingerly, as if the tenderness would make its effect less hurtful later on.

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock maintained. John only sighed.

“You’re a drama queen.” Sherlock couldn’t do anything but gape at him – he was finally learning to accept his own emotions, wasn’t that what John was always nagging him about? But John just shook his head fondly. “Big Ben? Really? What did you do, think of the most ridiculous iconic London landmark and just bully your way inside? Why not the London Eye while you were at it? Or Buckingham Palace, for that matter? Tell me you at least absconded with one of the Olympic buildings.”

“The volleyball courts, before they were torn down.” Where was this going?

“I understand why you didn’t tell me.” Ah, there it was. The beginning of the end. Sherlock wondered if they would have had a similar conversation before Mary, had he not been officially dead. “But I still wish you had. You can trust me, you know.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference.” It was true. John was hardly going to stop being heterosexual just because he knew his flatmate was in love with him.

Sherlock’s thoughts screeched to a halt. No, no, no, he _didn’t_ love John, that was just a slip of the metaphorical tongue. Because he _couldn’t_ love John, not now. Not when it was obvious that it would destroy what relationship they did have.

“Would have made a few things easier to understand.” John hadn’t seemed to notice his crisis. That was good, at least. Would have been embarrassing. Sherlock started fiddling with the damn ring box – he needed something to do with his hands and the cigarettes just weren’t cutting it anymore. He really needed to get Mycroft something better to smoke.

It was amazing how something so small and innocuous could cause him so much pain. He started plucking at the latch – he couldn’t let it have this much power over him. It was just a horrible, over-priced bit of mineral and metal. That was all. It meant absolutely nothing. He forced the box open, almost ripping the tiny hinges apart, and dropped it with a gasp.

This was not the ring John had purchased for Charlotte.

“That’s why it took me awhile to get here.” John was resolutely not looking at him, squinting up at the bright light that shone out of the clock faces. “You’d be surprised how difficult it was finding a jeweler that was still open at this time of night.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. It was a wide band, silver – no, he realised, titanium. Not quite as lustrous but significantly more resilient. Tiny diamonds were inset around it, almost at random, but on closer inspection there was a subtle pattern. It was understated, but the intention was still clear.

Engagement ring.

Things got dark, just for a second, and when he opened his eyes, John was kneeling in front of him, hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I didn’t faint. People don’t really do that.”

“Of course,” John replied smugly. “It’s probably just the nicotine poisoning. And thanks for taking such a damn long time to open that box, you tosser. I almost gave up and did it for you. You don’t have to answer right away – I did sort of spring it on you.”

That was true. Weren’t proposals something one planned for weeks in advance? John had certainly been planning Charlotte’s for nearly a month. A horrible thought occurred to him, and cold anger replaced the shock.

“Did you set this up?”

“What? No! Sherlock – I’m not cruel, Sherlock. I had every intention of proposing to Charlotte tonight.”

“So what stopped you?”

“Mycroft,” John said dejectedly.

“So my brother forced you to propose to me. How romantic.”

“Will you let me finish, you prick?” he growled. “Mycroft texted me, just as I was about to ask her, and all it said was ‘danger night.’ And I just – you were more important. There wasn’t even any contest. You’re always going to be more important. I don’t know why I didn’t realise it earlier. So, I wanted to prove to you that things wouldn’t change. We’ve always been partners - I’m just making it official, now. Besides, do you really think I’d choose the inside of Big Ben to be the perfect proposal location?”

“It’s private.”

“Yeah, because everyone else is sane enough to avoid it. Every time the bloody thing chimes it feels like my ear drums are about to burst.”

“We’re not going to have sex.” If John was thrown off by the sudden topic change, he didn’t show it.

“Alright,” he agreed slowly.

“But you like sex,” Sherlock argued.

“Can’t deny that, no. But I like you more. I told you, you’re more important than Charlotte. Hell, if I’m honest with myself, you were more important than Mary. And you’d be more important than any other woman I might happen to meet.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re so charmingly modest on top of it all.”

“No,” Sherlock floundered, “I mean – yes. To the- the thing.”

“Oh.” A beat. “You don’t need to rush into it Sherlock, honest. If you want more time to think about it…”

“When you shot Hope,” he interrupted. “I realised it then. That you were infinitely more important than anyone I had ever met or would ever meet. I realised how idiotically enamoured I was when you attempted to restrain Moriarty at the pool and give me a chance to escape. I jumped off a damn roof for you, John.”

“Please don’t remind me…”

“So I have had the past four years to think about it. I hardly need any more time to think. I have barely done anything beside think about it for several weeks now. So if you present me with a ring and a desire for a civil partnership I’m hardly going to delay answering and allow you a chance to reconsider.” 

“Oh. Well, good.” John grabbed the ring out of his hand, and Sherlock barely restrained himself from snatching it back. He needn’t have worried, though; John only wanted to slide it onto Sherlock’s finger himself. Both of their hands were shaking - Sherlock decided to ignore that.

“I must admit to being impressed you know my ring size,” he said off-handedly. “But you’re still not gay.”

“Nope.”

“John, is this - alright?” Sherlock asked. He couldn’t resist playing with the ring, twisting it around his finger, letting himself get used to the feel of it. “You don’t need to appease me. I realise this is not something that normal flatmates do.” John shot him a perfect ‘you’re-an-idiot’ glare - he’d probably picked it up from Sherlock at some point.

“I am an army doctor addicted to dangerous situations, you are a consulting detective danger-magnet, there are body parts in our fridge and toxic chemicals in our pantry, I’ve been kidnapped six times, two of those by your own brother, our landlady used to run a drug cartel and gives us a discounted rent because you put her husband on death row, and we routinely get criminals in our flat trying to kill us. At what point has our friendship ever been considered normal?” Sherlock allowed himself to smile, considered telling John he was the most amazing, most wonderful, most perfect human being he had ever met.

“You know people will talk,” he said instead, still focused on the ring. He’d need to get something suitable for John in return. John, who was now just grinning ridiculously at him.

“They do little else.”


End file.
